


Promises End

by sebhar



Series: UWU Fic Chat Quarantine Challenge 2020 [2]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: I miss this fandom, M/M, Post canon, Promises, The Grumpy One is Soft For the Sunshine One, Unbeta'd, in which I try to determine if I am capable of writing something that's not depressing, taking liberties with hannibal chau's choice of decor, unnecessary levels of eric clapton, uwu fic chat, uwu fic chat quarantine challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23365798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebhar/pseuds/sebhar
Summary: Hannibal and Newt hang out. A lot. Hannibal does his best to keep Newt out of his shadier dealings, and this time when he comes back, Newt's playing him a song.
Relationships: Hannibal Chau/Newton Geiszler
Series: UWU Fic Chat Quarantine Challenge 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677967
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12
Collections: UWU Fic Chat aka Tree Soup aka Ghost Teeth 2020 Coronavirus Quarantine Fic Challenge





	Promises End

When Hannibal gets back from taking care of business, his drink is fresh, and a fresh tray of food steams on the table. He prides himself on being surrounded by the best, and that includes his staff; he’ll make sure everyone working tonight gets a little something extra. His receiving room is a cabinet of curiosities - kaiju parts floating in jars, rare artifacts, even a Faberge egg if you know where to look. The decor oozes opulence, the crème de la crème - and the best piece of all, even if not officially his yet, faces the fireplace, one leg up on the hearth, picking on a priceless vintage Les Paul resting on his elevated knee. 

There aren’t many intact Les Pauls left in the world, certainly not around here, and anyone else who even sniffed that guitar would be bleeding out onto the carpet right now. Hannibal moves with surprising care for such a large man, like a big cat stalking its prey, and Newt is too engrossed in the song he’s picking out to notice anyway.

“I don’t care if you never come home,” Newt almost hums, fingers surprisingly deft, “I don’t care if you just keep on…” The lyrics prick something in the back of Hannibal’s brain, from so long ago it seems like a past life. “...rowing away on a distant sea, ‘cause I don’t love you and you don’t love me.”

He’s not half bad, hitting the low note with ease, the guitar’s tone rich even without amplification. Newt has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the vibrant tattoos on his forearms seem to dance in the firelight as he plays. “You cause a commotion when you come to town, you give 'em a smile and they melt…”

 _You’re being vain, Chau,_ Hannibal thinks to himself, but he can’t help thinking every song is about him. It’s not a compliment if this song is about you, either. “Having lovers and friends is all good and fine, but I don't like yours and you don't like mine.” 

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth quirks at that; Newt was terrified of pretty much everyone Hannibal associated with, even if he did manage to swallow his fear when it came to kaiju specimens, and Newt’s only friend, Hermann, was _not_ a fan of Hannibal at all. 

Newt plays on, apparently still unaware of Hannibal looming behind him. He sure hadn’t pegged the kid as a Clapton fan. The tattoos scream “overcompensating,” so Hannibal would have expected something edgier than Slowhand. 

Hannibal pointedly lets his glass clink against the rim of the tray as he picks it up, signaling his presence to the younger man. Newt’s eyes flick away from the guitar for a second, and he smiles before turning back to the fire, to the song. 

“I don't care what you do at night, and I don't care how you get your delights…” Hannibal drinks to hide his smirk even though there’s no one to see it anyway. The whiskey adds to the growing warmth in his gut. “...I'm gonna leave you alone, I'll just let it be, I don't love you and you don't love me.” 

Keep telling yourself that, kid. 

He should have a seat. The armchair is one of the few pieces in the room selected more for comfort than for aesthetic. He should sit down right now, sip his whiskey, keep his peace. Instead he stands, and he thinks.

“I got a problem, can you relate?” Newt sings, putting a little more effort into it now that he knows he has an audience. Hannibal suspects he can relate, actually, and moves silently toward the little kaiju groupie. “I got a woman calling love hate…”

The firelight flickers off the lenses of Newt’s glasses. As his fingers move on the guitar strings, the kaiju tattoos dance on his arms. “We made a vow we’d always be friends…”

“Hey kid,” Hannibal rumbles, his voice growlier than he intended. Newt stops playing suddenly, and Hannibal knocks back the last of his whiskey. The room is dark and silent and still, so still, except for the fire. Newt looks up at him, his face impossible to read in these conditions, and, fuck it. “Don’t you know that promises end?” Newt’s face changes, and he knows he has to be quick, before he starts talking. 

He pulls Newt up to his full height, which is nothing on Hannibal’s, tilts the kid’s face up to his, and kisses him. For a split second he thinks he may have miscalculated, but of course he didn’t, he’s Hannibal Chau, you don’t get to be the kingpin of kaiju parts on both sides of the Pacific by misreading people, and after a moment of surprise Newt is kissing him back, parting his lips, letting the Les Paul hang from the strap as he slides a hand over Hannibal’s neck, brushing his ear, pulling him closer. The older man growls into the kiss, letting the kid know that touch was good. He’s never met anyone with a praise kink quite as intense as Newton Geiszler’s, and he’s gonna enjoy exploiting that kink for all it’s worth. 

When they come up for air, Hannibal knows he looks smug, like the cat that finally ate the canary. Newt takes a few breaths, his hair even more unkempt than usual, before he pants, “That’s not the line.” 

Hannibal cocks his head. “The what?”

Newt swallows. “The next line is ‘How could we know…’” 

“Jesus, kid,” Hannibal chuckles, undoing the guitar strap and setting the Les Paul gently back onto its stand on the mantle, “Don’t you ever stop talking?”

Newt opens his mouth to protest but Hannibal is on him again. The staff knows not to disturb them, and he’s been waiting too long to let this opportunity go to waste. Because if there’s one thing Hannibal Chau knows, it’s kaiju, and he promised himself he’d find out if - and where - Newt’s kaiju tattoos end.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in a group DM full of fic enthusiasts, and we decided we'd do a daily drabble/fanart/fic challenge, with different prompts every day. This is my contribution for prompt #4, "promises" (thanks Ari!) which immediately and irrevocably got the Clapton song stuck in my head. But the song is about the friendzone, so... liberties were taken. Major love to Yulya, Britt, Jess, Mel, Nebs, Moony, Acha, Olivia, Maggie, and Gingey - you light up my life!


End file.
